Chapter Three
Old Josh: Chatting in the Barn
[Ozark, Alabama, 1864]
Chapter Episode Three 8/15/05
“Wor!” he says, ‘we is at wor,” said Old Josh, in earnest.
But Toby paid little attention to his papa, it was as if he felt the old man was losing his mind, talking just to talk, or perhaps talking to himself, he’d not look at Toby half he time when he talked, he’d just talk to talk, and if Toby was listening, oh well, then he was. It was like something in the old mans throat got caught and he had to get it out, and talking did it. And there was work to be done in the barn, lots of work, and if he turned about every time the old may said something, he’d not get it done, and then Old Man Hightower, Charles Hightower, would wop his behind good, or worse, slap his head or give him a kick where the sun didn’t shine. He never used anything other than his hands, or feet, not whip or shaving strap, never once so that was good.
“A wor is to recover our freedom!” the old man said, somewhat grouchy.
“Wht we want of a wite mans war?” asked Toby, “who says its our wor?” added Toby.
“I says—!!“ Old Josh yelled, looking with a stern eye at Toby, looking and kicking a bit of hay about, pretending to work, and not work, balancing a few work items on the barns beams, that didn’t need to be perfectly placed anyhow, just for something to do, perhaps thinking about where he was going to take his afternoon nap.
“’ts too many for us,” said Toby.
“Pope, dhis her wor is dhe mos mixed dhing I’d ev’r see—“
“Dey ‘all thinks we old po’ ignorant folk, who don’t knows nothing, cuz ef wes knows somthin, they’d be dey po’ old niggers, like us, I reckon, why dey’d wot gie mes—I know a damn thing. But I’s peacable, but I’d lov’s to swat them lik a fly wit my cane.”
Again, Old Josh was feeling his temper rising, his oats you could say, while trying to help his son Toby clean out the stable, which was more like getting in his way, but it was better than having the old man walking aimlessly about out in the yard, and Hightower seeing him.
Toby was listening to the old man, but not listening, and not saying much to his father, just working, who had been a slave all his life. It was 1863, the war would be over in a few years, and whoever won—flimsy at this point—as the war seemed, to Toby it wouldn’t make much of a difference. He put his pitchfork deep into the hay, and shifted his body a bit, to one of the stalls in the stable, the hay was as yellow as the sun, and Old Josh just kept on a bickering until he got tired, and Toby finished his work for him, as he [Josh] dosed off for a long afternoon nap. Mr. Charles Hightower, the owner, had gone to town, he had a son fifteen; Charles was in town talking to one of the Military Officers about his son joining a regiment, and perhaps himself, Hightower himself, with his son, but the son was a ting too young, and Hightower a bit too old, or so it was seemed to be. And the officer was apprehensive to taking his son at this point.
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